


Something That Belongs To Me (MFU50 Slash Round Robin)

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, MFU50 Round Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the three chapters I wrote for the MFU50 Slash Round Robin at MFUWSS. I've posted them here so that I don't lose them. The chapters are not sequential, and the material written by the other dozen or so contributing writers is missing, so it won't make any sense as a story. As I said, it's just a place to store material I may decide to use later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something That Belongs To Me (MFU50 Slash Round Robin)

Chapter 4

By evening, Illya professed to feeling well enough to go out, though Napoleon had his doubts. His partner's complexion was pale despite their recent time in the Middle East, and there were lines of tension bracketing the corners of his blue eyes.

“Why don't you stay here and rest, _tovarisch?_ I can stop by the diner and pick up supper for the two of us.”

“Stop hovering,” Illya replied archly. “I have a headache, not a terminal illness.”

“I stand corrected. Listen, if you're in the mood, it might be a good idea to take a little stroll around town after supper. I have a feeling there are a few mysteries waiting to be solved.”

“The absent dairy cows?”

“Among other things.”

“Give me ten minutes.” Illya stood, rubbing his eyes, and promptly sat down again. He clutched his head in pain.

“Fine, huh? Stubborn Russian.” Napoleon patted the bed. “Lie back down and I'll massage the kinks out.”

“No need. They will work themselves out.”

“Why suffer? Come on, roll over. I promise to be gentle.” His pulse quickened at the thought of touching that golden hair, that soft, pale skin.

“No. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? The ladies tell me I have magic fingers.” He wiggled them in front of Illya's face to demonstrate.

Illya's jaw set. “Go away, Napoleon. Take your magic fingers elsewhere.”

“What's the matter with you? For pete's sake, I only want –”

“I know what you want,” Illya declared softly. “Do you?”

Napoleon stared into those blue eyes, and the clever words of protest died on his lips. “Do I w-what?” he stammered.

“Know what you want.”

Napoleon's heart hammered in his chest. Images filled his mind, of silk sheets and soft cries and golden hair. He plastered on his most innocuous smile, the one that had served him so well on missions. “For dinner, you mean? I was thinking maybe fried chicken. Or a burger and fries.”

Illya gaped at his partner. “ _Bozhe moy,_ you honestly cannot help yourself, can you? You have to win at any cost.”

“Says the man who usually does," Napoleon snapped back.

“Fine. Play your amusing little games. You may win the battle, but you will lose the war.” He snatched his jacket off the bedpost and stormed from the room. The door snicked closed behind him.

Napoleon listened to his partner's footfalls descending the hotel stairs. _Game called on account of stupidity._ With a sigh, he threw on his own jacket and went after him.

*/*/*/

By the time he caught up with Illya, the Russian was halfway down Main Street. “You could have waited for me,” Napoleon said a bit breathlessly.

“I was hungry.” Illya continued walking.

“Please, can we just stop for a second? I want to talk.”

Illya turned, impaling Napoleon with his gaze. “So, talk.”

“Not here.”

Illya rolled his eyes, but followed his partner into the shadowed alleyway behind the Post Office, where they would be hidden from prying eyes. He glanced at their surroundings. “Do you really think a dark alley is the appropriate place to have this discussion?”

“I'm not really concerned about 'appropriate' right now.” Napoleon drew in a shaky breath. “You wanted to talk about that damned tape recording? Okay. Let's talk.”

“Why? So you can think of more ways to wriggle out of the conversation?”

“I won't, Illya. I promise. Ask your questions, and I'll do my best to answer them.”

“Truthfully?”

“The whole truth.”

"That remains to be seen." Illya folded his arms across his chest, the prosecuting attorney with the assassin's aim. “First question: You told Premier Karim that he had – and I quote – 'something of mine. Something that belongs to me?'”

Napoleon nodded.

“Why that particular phrase? Why _those_ words?”

He ran a nervous hand across his jaw, felt the rough growth of stubble there. “I wanted Karim to know that – that he couldn't afford to harm you. That you were – ”

Illya waited.

“– under my protection.”

“Ownership?” His eyes narrowed. “In my country, we start revolutions over less.”

“No, not that. I meant that you were -- important to me. More than just my partner. Someone – precious.”

Illya cocked his head. “Perhaps you had better explain that last part.”

"I'll try." _So this is what the condemned man feels like_. “I've known for some time that you – uh, swing both ways.”

“Eloquently put. Go on.”

“I'm not – like that. I love women. I love the way they move, the feel of my hands on their skin, the perfume they wear. I love everything about them.” He hesitated. “That's what makes this so –”

Illya took a step closer, enveloping Napoleon in the smell of him. The crisp lime of Illya's aftershave mingled with the musky scent of something deeper, something tantalizingly forbidden. Napoleon felt his erection pressing against the front of his trousers.

“Finish the sentence, Napoleon.”

“I don't – I've never wanted –” He tried again. “All I can think about is – w-wanting to –”

“Fuck me?”

Napoleon felt a wave of scarlet heat suffuse his face. “Yes,” he whispered.

Illya's expression softened. “You've never been with a man, have you?”

“How did you –?”

“It is in your file, or rather, _not_ in your file.”

Of course. Illya would have done his research. “I was never trained for that sort of work. If I had to, you know, do it for an assignment – I could accept that, but --"

Illya's eyes glittered in the darkness. “But this is different?”

“Of course it's different. This matters. It would change us. Change me.”

Illya was silent for so long that Napoleon feared he had gone too far, said too much. He began mentally preparing himself for the end of their partnership. The bells in the church steeple tolled seven o'clock.

“You will have to decide,” Illya said at last, and Napoleon began to breathe again. “What you want. What we are. What we may become together.”

“I know. A little longer. That's all I ask.”

Illya tilted his his partner's chin up. “A little longer,” he whispered, his lips just barely brushing the corners of Napoleon's mouth. “But not too long.”

Napoleon shivered at the touch. He closed his eyes, leaned into the kiss.

“'Scuse me? You fellas lost?”

They spun around. Instinct had them reaching for weapons they no longer possessed.

“Oh gosh, sorry,” the pretty blonde teenager smiled. “I didn't mean to startle you. It's just that I was passin' by and saw the two-a you back here in the alley. You're not from around here, so I thought maybe ya might be lost. Name's Krystal, by the way. Krystal Hayes, but you can call me Krystie.”

“Napoleon Solo. This is my friend, Illya Kuryakin.”

“Pleased to meet-cha.” Krystie was dressed in a pink waitress uniform that, while modest, managed to hug her curves in all the right places. The color of the uniform precisely matched the square of pink bubble gum she popped into her perfect Cupid's bow mouth. _Nabakov's Lolita,_ was Napoleon's first thought. He wondered how long she had been standing there, and what she had seen.

“Uh, yeah, I guess we got turned around. We were looking for the local diner. _Mildred's,_ I think it's called.”

“What a co-inky-dink,” she replied, a pale pink bubble erupting from her lips. “I'm on my way there now.” _Pop_.

“Great! Mind if we tag along?”

“Um, sure." _Pop. "_ But we hafta hurry. My shift starts in a coupla minutes, an' Mildred don't like the help to be late.”

It was a warm night. People strolled along Main Street, eating ice cream cones and pausing now and then to glance into the shop windows. An out-of-tune brass band rehearsed in the gazebo, their attempt at a Sousa march accompanied by the incessant chirp of crickets. Children chased fireflies across the Town Green. The reedy wheeze of a pipe organ drifted toward them from the open door of the Foster's Creek Congregational Church. Wobbling voices lifted in song.

“Church choir practice, seven to nine every Friday night, “ Krystie declared proudly. “Mama's in there now. She's got a solo on Sunday, if you folks are still around.”

“Nearer my God to Thee,” the choir sang.

“Isn't that what the band was playing when the _Titanic_ went down?” Illya whispered.

“Shh.” Napoleon picked up his pace until he was striding alongside their guide. “So tell me, Miss Hayes –Krystie – is the food at _Mildred's_ any good?”

Krystie nodded enthusiastically. “Best in town! 'Course that ain't sayin' much, since it's the _only_ restaurant in town. Be sure to try the meatloaf. It's homemade, an' spicy enough to put hair on your chest. Oh, an' stay away from the dandelion wine – that is, unless you want one beauty of a hangover tomorrow mornin'.”

“So we've been warned.” He made a point of glancing around. “Say, Krystie, I've been meaning to ask, where are these Feldman Guernseys we've been hearing so much about?”

“Guernseys?” Krystie slowed. “Why do you ask?”

Napoleon shrugged. “I've never seen one.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I hafta say, Mr. Feldman is pretty protective of his cows. They're award-winners, an' pretty valuable. He doesn't let strangers near them.”

“That's too bad. I guess I'll have to content myself with sampling some of your jams and jellies instead.”

Krystie smiled broadly. “Can't go wrong with that.” She paused to greet a storekeeper, allowing Napoleon and Illya to pass her by.

“I feel like I've fallen into a rerun of _The Andy Griffith Show,”_ Napoleon remarked quietly. “I keep expecting to meet Aunt Bee and Opie around the next bend.”

“More like H.P.Lovecraft,” Illya shuddered. “There is something deeply unsettling about this place.” He stopped to read the signpost in front of Town Hall. “American Legion, Knights of Columbus, Lions' Club, Masonic Lodge. An unusual number of civic organizations for such a small town, wouldn't you say?”

“I would indeed. Do you suppose the sign is for show? You know, to give the place an air of legitimacy?”

“Perhaps. Speaking of the air – does it smell strange to you? Unusually sweet?”

Napoleon sniffed and nodded. “Now that you mention it. Why?”

“It bothers my stomach. I thought it might be the gardenias in the park across the street –”

He shook his head. “Definitely not gardenias. My mother had a whole bed of them at our summer house, and they didn't smell anything like this.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Maybe it's got something to do with the jelly they make here.”

“I suppose it could be that.” Illya rolled his shoulders, massaged the furrow between his brows.

“Headache back?”

He grimaced. “In spades.”

“We'll pick up some aspirin at the pharmacy after supper, okay?”

Illya nodded distractedly.

“Here we are,” Krystie declared cheerfully. “Ta-da!” _Pop._

 _Mildred's_ was a quintessential fifties throwback diner. A flickering neon sign above the screen door advertised the name in bright pink letters _,_ and a planter of perfect geraniums blossomed gaily under the plate glass window. Taped to the window was a poster announcing the upcoming Pancake Breakfast “to celebrate the life and legacy of Miss Mary Louise, our beloved librarian of fifty years, recently deceased.” Another poster outlined the particulars of the weekly Farmer's Market, proceeds to go to the Foster's Creek Home for the Elderly.

“My teeth are starting to ache from all this wholesome goodness,” Illya muttered.

Napoleon sighed. “I know what you mean.”

The screen door swung open with a slap, revealing a substantial, big-boned woman in a pink cotton pinafore. “'Bout time ya got here, Krystie,” she remarked. She eyed the two men. “In or out?”

“That's Mildred,” Krystie whispered, her eyes wide.

“I said, in or out? You fellas deaf or sumpin'?”

“In,” Napoleon smiled his most charming smile. Beside him, Illya rolled his eyes.

Mildred scowled down at them, unimpressed, her muscular arms planted atop her ample waist. “Well? Whatcha waitin' for? Don't wanna let no flies inside.”

Unable to pass up such a singular invitation, Illya and Napoleon stepped across the threshold. The screen door slapped shut behind them.

*/*/*/

 

  


Chapter 15

  
“See me in Hell? Why, before we're done with you, Kuryakin, you'll stand at the very mouth of the inferno!”

Gervaise Ravel's laughter sliced into him, razor-sharp, tinkling like bells. Illya clamped his hands over his ears to block out the awful sound, but it echoed inside his head, morphing into Egret's sultry chuckle, and then Miss Diketon's twisted jubilation. He fought to stay conscious.

“How sweet.” Miss Diketon, her voice dripping with scorn. “Look at him try to fight the drug. Why, the poor boy actually thinks he can win.”

“He's proving more resilient than we anticipated,” Egret replied, her tone tinged with worry. As Illya watched, she spread her wings and flew away, soaring skyward to join the rest of her foul flock.

Foul flock? Fowl flock! Illya giggled.

A murder of crows, he sang. A scold of jays, an unkindness of ravens, a mutation of thrush...

“We don't have time for this.” Gervaise Ravel, cold, matter-of-fact. “Increase the dose.”

“That would be unwise.” Egret, sounding put out. “His body's already being taxed to the limits of –”

“We have no choice. We need to know what he knows.”

“Very well, but I won't be responsible for the consequences.”

“The consequence, you little fool, is that we'll all be dead if the plan fails. Now give him the injection.”

Illya felt the sharp stab of the needle, felt the toxin searing a path along his veins. His vision blurred; his tongue grew thick in his mouth; his skin prickled. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them next, Frank Zappa lay beside him, smoking a joint. _Dude, this is some serious shit._

He tried to feel his feet on the floor, but could not. Was he standing? Sitting? Was there a floor? There was no way to prove its existence, or his own.

_Cogito, ergo sum._

_Don't be too sure_ , said Schrödinger's cat. _Welcome to my box._

Box? More like a coffin.

 _Tvoyu mat'!_ They have buried me alive!

No, please! Anything b –

He was falling, falling into an endless black void. His heart slammed against the wall of his chest; his breath came in gasps. The darkness was palpable, absolute, a freezing, floating nothingness that set his teeth to chattering, a smothering heaviness that pressed against his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He fought to control his terror.

Not real not real not real not real not –

His body arched up, ribcage thrusting forward, lungs harvesting the last of the oxygen.

Somebody open the damned box!

 _Pozhaluysta._ Please.

 _Don't beg_ , Napoleon whispered in his ear. _They aren't worth it._

Napoleon! _Oh, moya krasivaya lyubov!_

_Stay strong for me. For us._

“Oh, look,” said Diketon. “he's got an erection. Mmm, a lovely one, at that!”

“His heart rate's nearly tripled.” Egret again, angry. “I told you it was dangerous to risk increasing the dose. We could lose him.”

“We need that information.” Gervaise Ravel, petulant.

A new voice. “Boys will be boys. Illya just needs a bit of convincing, don't you, dear?”

Mother Fear! It cannot be! She is –

A hand stroked his cheek. “You remember Mother, don't you, Illya? We had such a lovely visit last time. My, such soft skin.” Slap! “Now stop being a naughty boy,” – slap! – “and tell Mother what you know.” Slap! “Right now!” Slap! “I want you to mind me!”

His skin crawled at her touch. He felt an overwhelming urge to cry.

 _Fight it_ , Napoleon urged. _Fight it_. Illya could feel him close by. Alive. The thought calmed him.

 _Frère Jacques,_ he sang. _Frère Jacques. Dormez vous?._..

A sigh. “I see Mother is going to have to punish you again, Illya. A pity, really, but you've brought this on yourself.”

Diketon giggled. “Can I watch?”

“' _May_ I watch.' Yes, of course you may, you naughty girl.” She drew a lethal-looking strap from the case on the table, flexed it, smiling. Illya could smell the leather. “With a good stropping, the first thing to remember is that it's all in the wrist.” She tested its play, a series of jarring snaps beside Illya's left ear. He tried to pull away, but could not. “Timing is important, of course.”

She struck without warning, a burning slash upon his bare chest. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Another strike, this one across his belly.

The smell of cigar smoke invaded the room. _It's time for your appointment, Herr Kuryakin,_ Dr. Freud said.

I am rather busy at the moment.

_Lucky for you, zere vas a cancellation._

You are not real.

 _Interesting, but not relevant. Shall ve begin?_ He opened his notebook, pen poised above the crisp, clean page. _Tell me, Herr Kuryakin, ven did you first realize zat you hated your Mother?_

I loved my mother. I warn you, Herr Doctor, I do not have any guilt feelings for you to prey upon. Or any resentments.

_Ve shall see, Herr Kuryakin. Ve shall see. Now, vat is zee first thing you remember?_

Cows. I remember cows –

– and damp grass under his body. He remembered the feel of it. Did that make it real? What else? The cow's wet, vegetal breath as she licked his face. He remembered that, too. And yet –

_Und –? Vat else?_

He remembered the feel of the Lear jet's soft leather seat under his buttocks, and the confining press of the seatbelt against his chest. He remembered his own screams as he watched Napoleon bleed out. He remembered the fight. Darkness. Napoleon's blood, warm and wet on his hand.

Did that happen? Herr –?

Mother Fear struck him again, a stunning blow to the groin. Illya arched off the table, screaming in pain. Diketon gasped with pleasure. “See, dear? It's all in the wrist.”

“Can I – _May_ I try, Mother?”

“Perhaps later, when we aren't so pressed for time.” She caressed Illya's cheek. “Well, young man? Are you ready to mind me?”

Illya floated in a red haze. Napoleon is real. My love for him is real. Hold to that. Hold tight.

“Pity.” The strap descended.

Sherlock Holmes was taking breakfast in his sitting room. At his feet, the Baskerville Hound howled. _Eliminate the impossible,_ he said between bites of toast and kippers. _Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

I was talking to Doctor Freud a moment ago. Where is he?

_The University of Vienna, I believe. Kipper?_

The blows rained down, faster now, slicing into his chest, his legs, his groin. Illya compartmentalized what remained of his mind, placed the pain in a corner room, locked the door. The Baskerville Hound continued to howl.

Somebody please shut that damned dog up!

 _That's not the dog,_ Holmes replied, and reached for the newspaper.

Illya's head pounded until he was sure it would explode out of his skull. His belly churned; he felt like throwing up.

_You give me fever..._

Is any of this real?

_You're asking the wrong question again._

What was the right question?

Think.

 _Cogito, ergo sum_.

Gervaise had mentioned Portugal. An UNCLE operation there. Illya knew of no such operation, but that didn't mean there wasn't one.

Something there, though...something she said...

_See me in Hell? Why, before we're done with you, Kuryakin, you'll stand at the very mouth of the inferno!_

The mouth of the inferno. Wasn't there a place by that name, on the coast of Portugal? Boca do Inferno. Yes, that was it! Something had happened there, years ago...

The blows continued to fall, but Illya barely felt them anymore.

I don't know what to do, he thought, and felt ashamed.

_To be is to do, said Socrates._

_To do is to be, Sartre argued perversely._

_Doo-be-doo-be-doo, sang Frank Sinatra._

Illya's skin sizzled; he was burning, burning. The heat was unbearable. His head dripped melted candle wax. Icarus, flying too close to the sun. A hubris of kuryakins. He leaned over the side of the examination table and heaved up the contents of his stomach.

_You give me fever..._

Bozhe moy, what had they done to him?

*/*/*/

Napoleon woke to the sound of screaming.

_Illya!_

_*/*/*/_

  


Chapter 25

The clock on the mantel chimed, rousing Napoleon from a deep, dream-filled slumber. He yawned, feeling vaguely disoriented, and struggled to hold on to the fading memory of the dream...

_Hands, Illya's hands, touching him, caressing him, in places where a man's hands had never trespassed. Illya's mouth claiming his own, hot breath trailing down shivering flesh, possessing him. Illya's erection pressing against his belly, hard and ready..._

The evening came back to him with a jolt. Illya had been waiting patiently in the darkness for him, determined to talk. The conversation had been careful, so careful -- two men tiptoeing on eggshells, struggling to define the boundaries of their new relationship. And then... and then! Illya throwing caution to the wind, curtailing the endless conversation with a kiss, a kiss that had quickly led to other, more stimulating activities.

A wave of pleasure washed over Napoleon at the memory. He had...and they had...and it was...

_Wonderful._

He thought about opening his eyes, but something made him hesitate. Was the evening he remembered genuine, or merely another one of Egret's cruel, drug-induced hallucinations? The latter was entirely possible, given their recent hellish experiences at the hands of THRUSH. He shuddered, suddenly cold. If his night with Illya had never happened, it would be a pain beyond bearing. It had to be real. It had to be.

He opened his eyes.

He was naked, lying on the sofa in his New York apartment. Illya slept beside him, snoring softly, his slender body wedged against the sofa back, bare legs dangling across the elegant, brocaded arms. Sunlight streamed in through the French doors, bathing his body in its golden glow. He looked magical, other-worldly, a demi-god out of Greek myth, Herakles resting after his labors.

 _Real. It was real._ Napoleon could have wept with relief.

With a sense of awe, he touched one pale shoulder, felt the soft perfection of the skin, the rock-hard sinew beneath. Silk over bedrock, the dichotomy that was Illya. His fingers threaded through shimmering golden hair, brushed the slender neck, traced the faded scars of old wounds.

_Mine._

He kissed the full lips, and felt the corners of Illya's mouth curl up in a smile.

“You are disturbing a perfectly splendid dream, Polya. If you were an Egret, a Gervais, a Ravel, or a Diketon, you would be running for your life right now.”

Napoleon chuckled. “Luckily, I play for the other team.”

Blue eyes opened. Illya's voice was heavy with sleep, and tinged with amusement. “Nevertheless, it is perilous to wake a sleeping UNCLE agent. We are a dangerous bunch, or so rumor has it.”

“It's awfully hard to think of you as dangerous when you're lying there in your birthday suit. _In flagrante delecto,_ as it were.”

“Said the pot to the kettle. As I recall, your Savile Row suit dropped to the floor several hours ago.” Illya stretched, muscles rippling, and lay back with a sigh of contentment. “Did you sleep well?”

“Never better. I – dreamed of you. Of us, together. Of what we – did.”

Illya reached up to caress Napoleon's cheek. “It was a good dream, I hope?”

"Quite stimulating. I - I didn't want it to end.”

“Who says it has to?”

In a single, graceful move, Illya rolled his body over Napoleon's, pinning him to the sofa cushions. Grinning at Napoleon's obvious surprise, he lowered his head, and devoured his mouth in a devastating kiss. He tasted of vodka, smelled of sex.

Napoleon's mouth softened, opening to Illya's tantalizing tongue. It probed him relentlessly, a delightfully thorough exploration that ignited sparks of desire deep in his loins. His cock swelled. _The man is a linguistic genius in more ways than one_ , he thought as Illya nibbled seductively on his lower lip. He closed his eyes, and gave himself up to the sweet sensations flooding through him.

The kiss ended, and Napoleon gasped at the sudden emptiness. He ached to feel Illya's lips upon his again. He reached down to grasp Illya's cock, desperate for connection, but Illya seized his wrist in those powerful fingers, and moved his hand away.  
  
"Let me do this for you, Polya."  
  
He would have protested, but by then Illya had turned his attention to a new objective, licking his way down Napoleon's neck. His clever lips fastened around a nipple, teased it erect. A coiling, throbbing pressure began to build in Napoleon's groin. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Illya's hands drifted lower, brushing the soft down of chest hair, and sliding across his belly to trace the quivering inside of a thigh. Napoleon's hips bucked reflexively, his erection thrusting against the hard muscles of Illya's abdomen.

“Shh.” The fingers continued their downward journey, sliding underneath Napoleon's hips. They insinuated themselves at the base of his buttocks, and began an intimate massage. “Do you like this, Polya? Do you like what I'm doing to you?”

Napoleon could only nod. His entire body trembled. He licked his lips.

A finger slid between his ass cheeks. “And this?"

“Oh, Jesus....”

“Tell me what you want, Polya.”

“You,” Napoleon rasped. “Inside me.”

“In -- here?" The fingers pressed against the tight anal muscle, and Napoleon's body arched off the couch, gasping.

"Y-yes. Oh, yes..." _He wanted it – Illya inside him, filling him._ "Please..."

Illya leaned closer; Napoleon felt hot breath on his ear. "Are you sure? It does take some getting used to.”

"I'm sure, dammit!" Napoleon's voice caught on a sob. “For Christ's sake, stop talking and fuck me before I explode!”

Illya laughed, and promptly covered his mouth in another kiss, this one even more devastating than the last. Napoleon could feel the throaty rumble of laughter vibrating on his lips, a seismic event that left him moaning helplessly into Illya's mouth. His erection throbbed in anticipation of what was soon to come.

Illya nuzzled his ear. “Perhaps we should continue this in your bedroom. Your couch is rather cramped for what I have in mind.”

They tumbled down the hall to Napoleon's bedroom, and fell onto the silk sheets in a tangle of arms and legs and hands, bodies grinding against one another, hungry for release. Napoleon's body hummed, electric. He had never felt so alive.

“Turn over, Polya.”

He rolled onto his belly. His eyes were glazed; he felt dizzy, drunk with need. “Like this?”

“Perfect. You are perfect. _Moya kraskvaya l'ubov._ ” Illya made a small correction in the angle of Napoleon's hips, and slipped a pillow beneath them. He spread the legs apart, opening him, and dropped a tender kiss upon each buttock. “Ready?”

Napoleon nodded, shivering with fear and anticipation. He felt open, defenseless, exposed. He closed his eyes, and pillowed his head upon his arms. His erection pressed insistently into the silk sheets.

From behind him, he heard the sound of a bottlecap snapping open.

“This will help,” Illya whispered.

Slick fingers massaged the base of Napoleon's buttocks, separated the cheeks. A single finger penetrated, and he gasped at the intrusion.

“Try to relax.”

“I'm...trying...”

A hand reached around to grasp Napoleon's penis. Expert fingers teased the glans, setting up a pumping, pulsing rhythm along the shaft, and any semblance of rational thought fled. Napoleon moaned, insensate, as waves of pleasure rocked his body. He never noticed when the second finger entered him, or the third.

All at once, he felt the tip of Illya's cock push in, stretching him. He cried out in pain, and Illya froze.

“Polya?”

He gasped. “It's...okay. I just...need a few seconds...” His heart pounded wildly in his chest. His lungs pleaded for air.

Illya resumed stroking Napoleon's cock, and the burning discomfort faded. He ventured further -- another inch, two, and abruptly Napoleon saw stars. He cried out again, and Illya stilled, his eyes clouded with worry.

“We do not have to do this, Polya – There are other ways we can --”

“Don't you dare stop!” Napoleon gritted his teeth. “I want this. I want you.”  
  
Illya hesitated, uncertain. "Polya --"  
  
"I can h-handle it."

The intensity in Napoleon's eyes told him that it would be pointless to argue. He nodded, and seized Napoleon's hips in his hands. he began to rock them together, a slow, steady cadence. As they rocked, Illya's thick cock worked its way, inch by inch, past the tight ring of anal muscle. Beneath him, Napoleon shivered, clutching the bedsheets in his balled fists.

“Ready?”

Napoleon nodded, and Illya thrust home. The sensation was overwhelming, alien, like nothing Napoleon had ever experienced. Black spots swam before his eyes, and for an instant, he thought he might pass out. His world spun wildly. He took a deep breath, and then another, and the pain receded. He smelled Illya's musky scent, felt his familiar weight pressing down upon his back, heard the mutual pounding of their hearts.

Illya remained motionless, giving his partner time to adjust. Napoleon could feel Illya's cock buried deep inside him, thick and hard, twitching with need. The thought of Illya filling him in this way was incredibly arousing. Little by little, he felt his muscles relax to accommodate him.  
  
"Love me, Lyushka."  
  
Illya needed no further invitation. He slid home, burying himself completely in Napoleon's warmth, and slowly pulled out again, until only the tip of his cock remained sheathed. He slid back in again, a bit faster this time, and Napoleon responded by pushing back against him, drawing him deeper, urging him on. His lips parted in rapture; exquisite little whimpering sounds escaped his throat.

“Oh, Jesus...yes...!”

It was too much for Illya. He drove into Napoleon, flesh slapping against flesh, his powerful thighs propelling him forward with desperate urgency. His hands were vise grips on Napoleon's hips. Again and again he thrust, claiming, possessing, and Napoleon's soft cries turned to animal grunts of raw pleasure.

All at once, Illya babbled something incomprehensible in Russian. He shuddered once, twice, and with a final, massive thrust, spilled his seed into Napoleon. Seconds later, Napoleon's world exploded, and he came screaming into the sheets. His last coherent thought was that he had never felt such joy.

Afterward, they lay in each other's arms, sweat cooling on their exhausted bodies. Napoleon still trembled from the waves of sensation spiraling through him. He buried his face in Illya's shoulder.  
  
"So,” Illya murmured sleepily, “that was nice."  
  
Napoleon looked up, caught the twinkle in his partner's eye. "Nice? You call that nice?? It was pretty damned spectacular, if you ask me."  
  
Illya smiled. "It was, wasn't it?" His fingers toyed with Napoleon's nipple, sending little electric shocks coursing through his body. "Although --"  
  
"Although?"  
  
"I am still rather hungry... Is there a next course?”

“Good God, is there no limit to your insatiable appetite?? We just had awesome, mind-blowing sex, and you're ready for more?”

“Aren't you?” Illya bent down, and bestowed a delightfully thorough kiss on Napoleon's ripe, bruised lips.

Napoleon sighed. "Well, when you put it that way..." He wiggled his body into a sitting position and stretched, enjoying the pleasant ache of well-used muscles. "I did promise you dessert...”

“Yes, you did.”

Hazel eyes twinkled. "I suppose there's always the shower...”

 


End file.
